


Your Heart Young

by theswearingkind



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The girl is lovely—fair and well-formed, and her face speaks of Roman parentage.  “Fifteen years, dominus,” she says, voice soft and eyes appropriately downcast when dominus asks her age, but later Nasir hears her laughing with another of the house slaves, high and spirited, and watches as her eyes follow Luteus’ broad back and strong arms appreciatively as the man leads dominus’ horse to the stables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Heart Young

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **aeternium** 's prompt at the Spartacus Fic-a-thon of "nasir and chadara, canon teenage friendship fic - _that's the way the river runs_." This got a little sadder than I intended it to be, but, uh, that's how I roll? Sorry also for taking forever with it.
> 
> Also, it is technically April 5 as I post this, which makes it officially **Nasir Appreciation Week**!
> 
> Title from Brandi Carlile's excellent song "Keep Your Heart Young."

The girl is brought to the villa when Nasir is still too young to attract much notice, though of late dominus’ eyes have begun to linger as Nasir serves him evening meal. Nasir is no fool; he has lived in this house for most of the life he can remember, has seen what happens to pretty boys and girls when they come to age. His dominus is not a kind man, but he is no crueler than most, and he has no thoughts toward the youngest children, at least; Nasir has yet another summer, perhaps two, before he will be expected to go to his dominus’ bed. 

The girl is lovely—fair and well-formed, and her face speaks of Roman parentage. “Fifteen years, dominus,” she says, voice soft and eyes appropriately downcast when dominus asks her age, but later Nasir hears her laughing with another of the house slaves, high and spirited, and watches as her eyes follow Luteus’ broad back and strong arms appreciatively as the man leads dominus’ horse to the stables. Nasir frowns as he counts the stores; such things are unwise even for slaves whose positions are long established, but for a girl new-brought to the villa and yet uncertain of her place, it is doubly so. 

He has seen what happens when slaves let themselves form attachments, has witnessed a woman torn screaming from her man’s arms, a market slave whipped bloody for glancing twice at his dominus’ favorite girl. Nasir does not understand the risk.

The girl’s gaze lights on Nasir next, and he finds himself caught by its shrewdness, the unexpected intelligence shining through her eyes, as she looks him over calmly, considering; she is not so very much older than him, but he feels like a child under her eyes, as though his years at the villa mean nothing beside this girl, beside her frank stare and bold laugh and swinging gait. He bears her gaze as best he can, returns it levelly, until all at once her lips quirk in what might be a smile, and she winks at him. 

Her golden hair shines in the sun. 

*

Later that night, he is sent to collect her from dominus’ chambers. The girl rises from the bed, tugging her dress back into place as Nasir passes wine to dominus, and she seems—not like he had expected her to, perhaps; not like others have, in her place. Dominus scarcely looks his slaves in their faces, so to him she might pass for properly submissive, but Nasir studies blankness, has made it his art, and the girl’s face, carefully drained of expression—it looks not meek but _bored_ , as though the task was unpleasant, but by no means unknown to her.

“You are called Tiberius?” she asks, when they’ve left dominus’ chamber to return to the slaves’ quarters. “Have you lived always in Rome, then?” He makes no answer; there is nothing to be gained from such questions. “I ask only because you remind me of a boy in my last house, brought to Rome as child—he was of your coloring. He spoke of a brother, once,” she finishes, and Nasir stops short, eyes darting toward her. It is not possible, he knows, but—

Nasir swallows hard. “His name?” he asks, halting, and hates himself for still wondering, for offering knowledge that this girl might one day put to harsher use.

“Our dominus called him Domitius,” she says, her voice growing unexpectedly quiet, “because he required much—much effort to tame,” and Nasir wonders what it might take to cause the hitch of breath that breaks this bold laughing girl’s words. “He had a friend, though, a house slave that I was acquainted with. When there was no one else about, the boy would sometimes call him Baltasar.”

It is not him, then. Nasir expected no different, and yet. 

His face must tell the story. “Apologies,” the girl offers, voice yet soft. “I had not thought to cause pain.”

Nasir forces himself to straighten. “Apologies are unnecessary,” he says, and he is proud that his voice does not waver from purpose. “You cause none.”

*

The girl speaks again only when they have reached her quarters; she will share with Aemilia and Dia—a stroke of luck, he thinks; there are others who would not take so kindly to one as lovely as she coming to the villa, particularly not when dominus already shows her favor. “Gratitude,” she says, “for your aid,” and there is a tease behind it, perhaps, something like what he’d seen in her earlier in the day.

“I offered none.” It is the truth; he but follows order now, and it is no kindness to her.

She smiles, quirking her brow. “If not for you, he might have kept pounding away at me until morning sun crested sky. It was your appearance prompted finish.”

Nasir feels his cheeks grow hot. He knows what his future holds, but to hear it spoken of so casually makes his stomach turn. “You should not speak so of dominus,” he says sharply, to hide his shame. “You will see us all punished for words that fall from your tongue alone.”

Something shifts in the girl’s face, mercurial, and there again is the calculation, the perceptiveness Nasir noted in her; she is not fooled by his talk of punishment. “You are young yet,” she says, not quite a question—a test, perhaps.

Nasir’s mouth feels abruptly dry. “Not so very young,” he manages, at last, and does not allow himself to look away from her. His voice sounds strange in his ears. 

The sudden touch of her hand against his is shocking, the steadiness of her gaze still more so. “When he calls for you,” the girl says, the flickering of the torches casting shadows under her high cheekbones, “I will do what I can to help. I have—often wished such had been available to me, when my last dominus decided I was of an age to take to bed.”

It is unwise to ask such questions, but the words are out before Nasir can stop them. “What age?”

The girl smiles again, but it is a joyless thing, her blue eyes losing their depth, and Nasir recalls her voice as she spoke of the boy who looked like him, the boy whose name bore testament to his breaking. “Younger than you stand now.”

Nasir has not seen his fourteenth winter. He looks younger still.

For a long moment they merely stand silent, her hand a burning, desperate weight on his. 

“Gratitude,” he says finally, voice rough, as though any mere word could encompass all he will owe her on such a day.

The girl’s smile changes again, so quick he might have imagined the other, becoming once more teasing and just this side of sharp, and her hand drops away as she moves for the doorway to her new chambers. “Such a day may yet be far from you,” she says, girlishly imperious, and had he not but moments ago borne witness to the words, Nasir would swear no serious thought had ever found voice from her lips. “I am told I am skilled in such matters, and I would seek advancement where I may.” 

He takes it for the gift it is.

“Goodnight, then,” she says, and hesitates but a moment before adding, “Tiberius.” 

There are none in the villa who know his true name. He will save it, he decides, for when the day comes, for when it may help balance the scale.

*

 _Chadara_ , Nasir thinks as he closes his eyes. Her name is Chadara.


End file.
